A spider hides behind
the white hose box,
black and dry as paper.
The spider dashes like
a scattering of leaves
as I tap my foot
to announce my coming
for the hose.
The hose unfurls itself,
waxy and mottled
and stretches like a cat
with a belly of green diamonds
in the crackling
and matted lawn.
I turn the stiff faucet
that squeaks and reels,
drumming up its downpour
from some deep cavern
and spritzing water
from its loose and shining neck.
I tap my feet each day
as the spider purses its
bristling legs together
into a tense and watchful ball.
Even in the winter,
I tap my feet and
check for the spider
a spider long turned
to hollow ash.
Dance of the Sun
I’d like to bundle up all my things
and place them on the shining head of a pin
or have them fit on the brimful ledges of my eyes—
tears dried like tissue paper,
little moth wings that stuck and dried,
seafoam outlining the damp memory
of the mournful waves.
Let the lozenge of memory dissolve
and keep nothing very particular except
the custard yellow of the sky,
the swirling wind shaking the trees,
the tousled piles of gray clouds,
and a house the color of tawny ash
all at once illuminated in white light
as if the sun suddenly lifted up her ruffled dress,
kicked off her shoes and began to dance.
Esther Sadoff currently lives in Columbus, Ohio, where she teaches English to gifted and talented middle school students. She has a bachelor’s degree from Sarah Lawrence College and a Master of Education from The Ohio State University. This publication at The 2River View is her first.